Mad Scientists Never Prosper
by DidosLament
Summary: MayuriKisuke, but not shippy. Mayuri comes to some unpleasant realizations re: his predecessor, the worst of which is that he has a bit of a complex. Warning: Spoilers for SS arc.


Ever since the ryoka had left with Soul Society's groveling thanks, Mayuri had been a little more tightly wound than usual. It was mostly disgust – at loosing to that Quincy brat – that tightened the coils in his shoulders, set his teeth together, and locked his jaw. Mostly. Knowing that the child would never recover as he had should have soothed him. It _did_ sooth him. Mostly.

But something else still gnawed at his hyperactive mind. Namely, the memory of a realization from long, long ago. A realization concerning the former captain of _his_ division.

When Mayuri inherited the labs and personnel of the twelfth from that defector and his idiotic vice-captain, he'd known it would be a long journey out of the shadow. The other man was brilliant – but then so was Mayuri, and he had every confidence that he would eventually eclipse his predecessor. What he'd soon come to realize, however, was that it didn't matter even if he was brilliant.

He would never be as _cool_ as Urahara Kisuke.

People were awed by Urahara's innovations and creativity; they almost feared what Mayuri would do next. And that was just as good. What vexed him, however, was the memory of the appreciative whispers – many of them from female shinigami – that billowed in Urahara's wake, just like the cloak that he wore with a certain… _je ne se qois_.

Whatever it was, Kisuke had it. In spades.

And everyone's fascination was compounded by his eccentricity. There always seemed to be something slightly dangerous in Urahara's mental powers, an instability that could just as easily produce a disaster as a salvation. And the man was just _odd_. One moment he would be boisterously drinking with his friends and the next he'd be furiously scribbling equations on the nearest available surface, sometimes the back of his own hand. And the way he would convey exceedingly complex information to the council in that ridiculous drawl and lazy speech pattern made you think he was reporting from bed, probably with a bird (or two) tucked under his arm. It was, well… _ridiculous_.

The day that Mayuri found he'd been contemplating that man's personality for an hour or so, he'd made a vow. One that would finally lead him out of the shadow. He decided that since he'd never be cooler than Urahara Kisuke, he'd be _weireder_.

And he'd succeded. Mayuri knew he was pretty hot himself – under the paint – but the ladies had always found the pale cat-green of his eyes with the shocking blue hair a little too esoteric. And he knew, he just _knew_, his reedy voice was off-putting. No matter how many times Urahara had insisted Mayuri-chan's voice was "delicate, like a thrush."

So Mayuri rolled with it. First contacts, then covering most of his hair, and then the body paint. Contrary to popular opinion, most of his _accoutrement_ served a purpose. How else were you going to gouge out an errant subordinate's eye than with an extra-long middle fingernail? Besides, it made certain modern gestures just that much more offensive. Offensive was _good_. Even the black paint served a purpose – it cut down on glare – and some of his most devious pieces of equipment were concealed by his extravagant headgear. Mayuri was his own personal arsenal. And to top it off, he even made his own beautiful woman – both daughter and wife. And he took no small satisfaction in the face that most shinigami shuddered when he passed by, even his own men. He maintained his strangeness as meticulously as he did his lab equipment.

And this carefully crafted persona that was still intact, even after the ryoka left. Mayuri expected the irritation to fade after he'd put them from his mind, but something about the intruders (particularly the loud one with the outrageously large zanpakutoh), and the whole fiasco in general, that just wouldn't let him any pleasure from his routine of harping at Nemu, working his men to the bone, and occasionally scaring younger shinigami witless.

There was something about the way events had all fallen together, almost by coincidence – it was perfect. Well, perfect, except for the part where Aizen and those two fools Tousen and Ichimaru had narrowly escaped. What should have been a crippling disaster was merely an embarassing thorn in their collective side, and everyone seemed so _thankful_. But Mayuri knew. Aizen should have won outright. Kuchiki Rukia should be dead. Aizen and his traitors had been after the hougyakou that Urahara had secreted within her soul, and they'd taken it, but with much more effort and one less murder than they had originally planned. And now they had all of Soul Society, along with some obnoxiously persistent and oddly powerful mortals, hot on their heels.

Why wasn't she dead? Why wasn't Soul Society in ashes?

Mayuri applied his brilliance and examined the convergence of a number of threads, pieces of information that were as available to the former commander of the twelfth as to the current. That orange-haired punk's likeness to Shiba Kaien, and the effect it was sure to have on Rukia, Ukitake Jyuunshiro, and the Shiba clan. Soi Fon's idealization of Yoruichi. The regrettable fascination of Abrai Renji with a daughter of the noble Kuchiki household. The frayed political climate and long-standing rivalries within the Gotei-13. The unlikely friendship of the last Quincy with the shinigami and her substitute. And finally, the fortuitous and unprecedented spiritual power of a mortal boy and its effect on those around him. And to top it off, _someone_ had forcibly unlocked the boy's potential and made him powerful enough to rattle the great Kuchiki Byakuya. Mayuri hadn't missed the man's uncharacteristic pensiveness in the wake of the battle. There was something more there than an embarrassing defeat, but he had no idea what. Which was irritating. What appeared to be a series of chance encounters had galvanized an invading force that had actually _saved_ Sereitei from destruction. At least for a while. Irritating wasn't a sufficient description. It was infuriating.

As all the pieces neatly locked into place – only after the fact, for Mayuri – he came to the most damnable realization of all. No matter how ruthlessly he pursued knowledge, how _brilliant_ he was, he would never be _smarter_ than Urahara Kisuke.


End file.
